In this irresistible "downstairs" answer to Jane Austen's classic Pride and Prejudice, a young maid dares to imagine life and love beyond the scullery.

Sarah, one of the two Longbourn housemaids, leaned over the washboard, rubbing at a stained hem. The petticoat had been three inches deep in mud when she'd retrieved it from the girls' bedroom floor and had had a night's soaking in lye already. If Elizabeth Bennet had the washing of her own petticoats, Sarah often mused, she'd most likely be a sight more careful with them. Polly wandered by the scullery with a stack of dishes; Sarah could hear her dragging a stool over, then clambering up on it to reach the shelves and put the plates away. But her attention was tugged away across the courtyard by the sound of furniture being shifted, all of it accompanied by a faint whistling. The new hired man was clearing out the stable loft. The tune seemed familiar but she couldn't quite catch it. It fluttered around her like a moth, distracting.

Of men, Sarah had scant experience. She steered around Mr. Hill: He was old and offered nothing by way of interest. She had very little to do with Mr. Bennet, who was, after all, only present in the physical sense. She kept her distance from the farm lads; say good morning, and they'd be blushing and mumbling and wiping hands down their britches. So she had no idea how to conduct herself, in these new circumstances. How to deal with a man?

Jane did well with men  with gentlemen. One of them had even written her poems. How did you get a man to do a thing like that? Jane sat nicely, and she listened with her head tilted, and she always seemed quietly pleased to dance if asked. But Jane was very lovely  a beauty, in fact  and she was dealing with gentlemen, not men. An ordinary girl such as herself would be taking quite a risk with that approach with an ordinary man. Only a gentleman had the leisure to devote hours to winkling a female out of herself.

Sarah looked down at her pruney fingers and the limp folds of her bile-colored dress. She was not confident that she was lovely at all; far from it.

Elizabeth was a different creature. Sarah had seen it at supper-and-cards, when she handed round the anchovy toasts. Elizabeth was always ready with a witticism. Bright-eyed and quick and lovely, making the young men blush and stammer and the old fellows wish they were half their age and sharper in their wits.

Sarah bit at what was left of a nail. She wasn't up to that.

Lydia and Kitty  who Sarah sometimes struggled to think of as two separate persons  Kitty and Lydia pitched themselves at every unmarried man who came their way, which made for rowdy card-parties and dances. Their approach required nothing more of a girl than enthusiasm, stamina, and a copper-bottomed sense of self-importance. But really, did it amount to anything? Any man at all, gentle or otherwise, would surely be squeamish about attaching himself to a woman who'd flirted with every other man of her acquaintance.

She could not model herself on Mary, either; she was a shabby nestling, her plumage not yet grown.

She was, she realized, entirely on her own, without example or guide.

The best that she could think of  and it did have a pleasing simplicity to it  was to be civil. Natural manners were always considered the best  she'd heard Miss Elizabeth say so.

So she would say, "Good morning." That would start things off.

She rubbed the mist from the window and looked out. And there he was. The new man. Mr. James Smith. Wiry, of middling height, his shirtsleeves rolled back and his forearms bare and weather-tanned. He moved with a pleasing briskness about his work. He kept his long, dark hair tied back in a queue. She noticed all this through a welling sense of delight.

"Polly!" she called. "Polly, come see."

Polly came down the step from the kitchen, wiping her hands. They both leaned in against the sink and peered through the window.

"Oh my "

Sarah put her arm around Polly's waist. "That," said Sarah, "is one job we won't have to do now."

They watched in silent happiness as the new man swept the yard.

The ladder had been left against the pippin tree. Head amongst the leaves, Sarah stretched out for the fruit, taking whatever was within easiest reach. She filled the trug and scrambled down, skirts gathered. She hurried up to the house, the basket handle hooked over her arms. The apples might bruise a little, knocking about like that, but they'd hardly have time to spoil.

As she strode along the side of the stable block, the new manservant was striding along the front, pushing a heavily laden wheelbarrow. As they swung round the corner from opposite directions, his wheelbarrow hacked into Sarah's shin; she grabbed at her basket; he stumbled to a halt.

They stood face-to-face; the barrowload of stable-muck steamed in the autumn cool between them.

"Sorry!" she said.

He pulled the barrow back, then pushed the hair out of his eyes. His skin was the color of tea; his eyes were light hazel and caught the sun. He stared at her skirts, where he'd hit her.

"Does it hurt?"

She bit her lip. It really did.

"I didn't see you "

"You should be more careful."

She could feel the trickle of heat where her shin bled.

"I nearly dropped my apples."

"Oh yes," he said. "I see. Apples."

"Yes. Well, you should really "

"So, if you're all right " He jerked his head: "Kitchen garden down this way?" She nodded.

He wheeled the barrow back another step and swerved past her. "Right, then. Thanks."

Then he was away, rattling down the track, his britches gathered in like a flour sack, one boot sole flapping half off. So this was the fine upstanding young man, the great addition to the household.

"And a good afternoon to you, too!" she yelled after him.

Sarah's stocking was not torn, and for that she was not entirely grateful. If it had been ruined, she could have allowed herself to be more cross.

"I met the new man, missus," she said as she set the trug down.

"Oh?" Mrs. Hill was rubbing lard into flour, but paused at this. "Pleasant lad, I think."

Sarah limped emphatically to the table and took up a paring knife. Mrs. Hill ran her hand across her forehead, leaving behind a fine dusting of flour.

"Are you all right, Sarah, love?"

"No. And he's not, either. Not in the head. I'll bet that's why he's here, and not in the service of some earl or fighting in the war. Because nobody else wants him, because he's a cack-handed lummox who's a danger to everyone around him "

Mrs. Hill gave a warning look.

"Well "

"Sarah. Don't go blaming others for what you've brung upon yourself."

Sarah lifted an apple and chunked her knife into it. She peeled away a ragged strip of skin and watched it coil onto the scrubbed tabletop, her lips pressed tight. This was not how things were supposed to be at all.

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